Gifted
by Kumiko Hasegawa
Summary: Sanji thought his life was over when he woke up in that hotel room and his body was no longer his. All of that changed when a certain green-haired man walked through the door. Rated M for the smangst.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by a pretty pretty picture on pixiv (it is also the story cover until I come up with something on my own). See the original here: www (d0t) pixiv (d0t) net /member_ ?mode=medium&illust_id=30342987

This fic is rated M.

I do not own One Piece.

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It was cold. Or rather, he was cold. He doubted that it had anything to do with the actual temperature of the room, though the air conditioner probably would have appreciated a break. But that was beside the point. Sanji had been perpetually shivering ever since he had been taken.

It had been three months since he had woken up in the hotel room that served as his prison. He had no memory of how he had gotten there. All that he remembered was falling asleep in his apartment one night and then waking up, naked and bound, on the too firm mattress. He had been terrified and furious, but most of all he was freezing. Sanji had lain on the bed for hours, quietly taking in his surroundings as he struggled with the difficult combined task of stopping his teeth from chattering and quelling the panic that clutched at his heart. By now he had every nook, cranny, crack, and crevice memorized.

It was a decent-sized suite style hotel room. Longer than it was wide, there was a living area with a couch with hard pleather-covered cushions, a high-backed armchair whose threadbare upholstery was at least a decade old, and a low faux wood veneer coffee table. Across from the couch was a bulky entertainment center, whose drawers and shelves were empty but for the old analog television that fit tightly into its designated compartment. Sanji had no remote for the tv; for that matter, he didn't have any control over the device at all. Rather, it would switch on at any given hour of the day or night, its volume varying from deafening to muted, and would play everything from the news to soap operas to horror films to children's cartoons. He had even seen porn on a few occasions, though every one of those had been under circumstances where he wasn't exactly free to watch. But he preferred not to think about that.

Beyond the half living room lay the bathroom. Typical of most hotels, the washing area was separate from the toilet and the bath. Just as one stepped into the washroom, the no longer plush polyester carpet gave way to linoleum tile. There was a wide double sink made of plastic that was meant to imitate marble and a large mirror that reflected the adjoining bathroom. As with everything else in his new "home"—as They called it—the bathroom itself was cheap made cheaper by its vain attempt to look expensive. The off-white toilet bowl was chipped and missing its lid, the towel rods were plastic and yellowed with age, the walls were speckled with mildew near the ceiling, and the pinkish bathtub was patterned with several layers of rings. The drain was clogged with rust, hair, and a myriad of other disgusting things that Sanji didn't even want to guess at, resulting with his rare showers ending with him standing shin deep in his own dirty runoff. Worse yet, the water pressure was turned up way too high and it was damned near impossible to control the temperature; so when he was allowed to shower, the uneven spray from the calcium encrusted showerhead hit him with bruising force, tearing at his scalp and stinging his skin. Most of the time, however, Sanji washed himself in the sink. Like the television, the shower only worked with They wanted it to work.

Opposite of the bathroom, on the other side of the living room, was his bed. Of everything housed within his personal prison, the bed was the most familiar to him. It was where he had first awoken; where he slept away the hours of blissful lonely solitude; and where he huddled, shaking and wrapped in the flimsy blankets when he was kept awake. It was also where he entertained any house guests that They brought him. Queen-sized, the mattress was just firm enough to be uncomfortable and was covered by the typical not-quite-cotton cream bed sheets topped by a thin wool blanket and a threadbare nearly flat duvet. He had also been allotted two polyfiber-filled pillows that vaguely hurt to sleep on, and a gaudy pink throw pillow with red stitching of flowers and the phrase "Home Sweet Home". Sanji couldn't help but to wrinkle his nose every time he saw the solitary piece of decoration. He wasn't allowed to hide it, or even remove it from the bed, and had been punished the few times that he had in his early days in captivity. The pillow served as a cruel reminder that his new lifestyle was permanent and inescapable.

Huffing, Sanji shifted his weight slightly, repositioning himself as best as he could given his current predicament, purposefully avoiding making eye contact with his own reflection in the wall-sized mirror at the foot end of the bed as he turned to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window. Made of tinted bullet proof glass, the double-paned expanse afforded him a stunning view of the city skyline and the horizon beyond, so long as the automated blinds between the panes of glass weren't closed. He had very quickly discovered that his room was east facing, as the sun shone in, completely illuminating the space, every morning. He was also high up; _high_, high up. When he pressed his face to the glass and peered down, the people on the sidewalk looked like ants and the cars like toys. In the early days of his captivity, Sanji had considered jumping, but the window functioned more as a clear wall than a window, with absolutely no way to be opened, and the glass was far too thick for him to shatter, especially when all of the furniture was bolted to the floor.

Reflected in the darkened nighttime glass, Sanji saw the clock on the table between the bed and the window click from 10:49 to 10:50. He felt a shiver run up his spine and flexed his arms in their newest bonds. Normally, he was allowed free run of his room, even if he spent the majority of it curled in a ball beneath the sheets. But it was a different story when he had house guests coming. Then They insisted that he be properly prepared.

Barely anything was ever revealed about the identities of his frequent and varying guests. Other than what he could gather from the ways with which They readied him for each individual and the occasional face that he recognized from the news, he was given absolutely no information. Instead, his captors would come in, force him to bathe, and then bind him or beat him or dress him or drug him or all of the above, based on the incoming guest's preferences. In the three months that had elapsed since his abduction, Sanji's so-called house guests had run the gamut from priests and politicians, to drug lords and gang members. He had entertained each one in turn, according to Their wishes, and had quickly amassed himself a small but growing list of regulars.

Tonight's visitor was a new one, and Sanji could only guess that the man was a newcomer to the organization and that he was meant to be a welcoming gift, given the way he'd been wrapped up like a present. Long bright red ribbon was entwined around his entire body. It circled his wrists, binding his arms behind his back, and then wound its way around his torso, stretching and crisscrossing over his chest and back as it snaked up and around his neck. From there, it hung down, the very small amount of slack it had been allowed swaying slightly in the currents created by the air conditioning vent in the wall directly overhead, before being wrapped tightly around his cock just below the head and tied off with a small bow. The ends of the ribbon slunk around behind him, laid out on the sheets and pillows in a semi-elaborate display before being secured to the headboard.

Per what seemed to have become the standard routine, he had been fed a cocktail of drugs that made his mind dull and fuzzy, and his body hypersensitive and compliant. It was impossible for him to ignore the dull ache that radiated around the silk that bound his erection, or the throbbing that travelled from base to tip, or the unscratchable itch that tingled at his slit with every drop of pre-cum that leaked out and burned a trail down the bound organ. A particularly violent shiver rattled its way through his body, and Sanji closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. It was at times like this that he felt the most hopeless. Being left bound, drugged, and aroused for some stranger to come and use wrenched away his humanity with terrifying force, leaving him with the harsh reality that his life was no longer his own. He had become a thing, a toy, a bartering chip. He was an unwilling instrument for pleasure, gifted and loaned out to curry favor with whomever They chose.

Cracking an eye open, he looked at the clock reflected in the window once more. 10:54p.m. His guest was to arrive at eleven. Squeezing his eyes closed again, Sanji took a shuddering breath and tried with all his might to focus on something else. Anything to take his mind off of the wait and the inevitable encounter that would follow it. His mind immediately took him back to his kitchen. He had been a sous-chef in his former life—the one that seemed so unreal now. Furrowing his brow when a particularly powerful throb down below threatened to pull him away, the chef began to mentally prepare his imaginary menu.

It was late fall now, so the food needed to be heavy and hearty. He wanted his imaginary customers to leave feeling fulfilled and sustained. This time of the year, when the wind seemed to claw through even thick down coats, the right meal could create a cocoon of warmth, a barrier against the onslaught of winter.

Sanji sighed to himself, trying his best to ignore the pain in his own empty stomach as he filled his fantasy menu with squash soup, beef, potatoes, beans, broccoli, and spinach. The other cooks would complain about his inclusion of too much green, but he silenced them with a stern glare and a menacingly raised foot every time. Soon he felt himself relaxing, his drug-dazed mind allowing him to run from reality more easily than when he was sober. The kitchen with its rowdy cooks was his refuge, and probably the only thing keeping him sane.

He was halfway through laying out the dessert menu and accompanying list of liqueur-infused beverages when he heard the heavy bolts on the other side of the door slide back. All thoughts about imaginary gourmet meals vanished in a heartbeat as Sanji's eyes snapped open and he whipped his head around to face the door located in the center of the wall between the mirror and the entertainment center. His entire body tensed as he waited to see who would step inside. He hoped desperately that whoever it was wouldn't be too violent. He didn't relish the idea of washing more blood down the clogged drain in the bathroom.

For the space of several uncomfortable halting breaths, he could only hear muffled voices on the other side of the thick wood. One of them he recognized as the burly blonde that was responsible for some of his more violent mistreatment, the other was unfamiliar. The stranger rumbled a response to an inaudible question, and was rewarded with a rough laugh. Then the handle began to turn and Sanji's breath caught in his throat. This was it. He was about to meet the man that would hold his life in his hands for the night.

A tanned hand entered the room first as it pushed the door open. For a moment, Sanji's view of the rest of the man was blocked by the door, and he held his breath as he finally emerged from behind it. The man was younger than he had expected; as a matter of fact, he was the youngest so-called guest that Sanji had yet to host. The stranger didn't look to be much older than he was, which seemed awfully young to be working with people like Them. And why the hell was his hair that outlandish shade of green?

Seemingly oblivious to the blonde's blatant staring, the man made straight for the couch, stripping off his long coat as he went and dropping it on the pleather monstrosity, and then heading for the bathroom and shutting the door. Sanji's mouth dropped open when he heard the telltale sound of liquid falling into liquid. The guy was peeing. Seriously? Did he even realize that there was someone else in the room? Sanji was pretty sure that he was kind of hard to miss, what with being naked and all. Soon, he heard the toilet flush, and the man walked out of the bathroom, washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, and then grumbled to himself when he found that there weren't any towels. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he turned to reenter the room and finally realized that he had company.

Sanji's mouth snapped shut at the same time that the man's fell open, and they both studied each other in stunned silence. As oblivious as he was, Sanji had to admit that at least the guy was handsome, even with the green hair. High cheekbones and a defined jaw framed a surprisingly youthful face. The man had a wide mouth, a thin straight nose, and gunmetal grey eyes, well, eye. The left eye was forever closed by a deep scar that cut vertically down from the eyebrow, through the lid, and ending on his cheek. Had Sanji been in the position to ask questions, one of the first would have been about the violent scar, and it took all of his self control not to just blurt it out.

He watched the man with wide eyes, a blush creeping onto his cheeks as he saw the one eye flick back and forth over his naked body, following the path of the red ribbon until it finally settled on his erection. The man stared at it for a minute, his expression one of pure shock, before his gaze moved back upward, landing on Sanji's face. Something in the grey eye hardened as it met Sanji's blue, and the blonde found himself shrinking away from the stranger, his body resuming its tense shivering. His mouth suddenly dry, Sanji attempted to swallow, only to have it stick half way down. The man looked like he was ready to kill something, and Sanji was the closest thing within strangling distance.

"Fuck this," the man finally spat after several tense minutes. With heavy booted steps, he stomped over to the couch and retrieved his coat. "I did not sign up for this shit."

With angry jerking movements, the man began to put his coat back on and head for the door. All Sanji could do was watch and hold his breath. Was he really just going to walk out? Hadn't he known that he would be there? Hadn't They told him? For that matter, what would They think when they came in the morning and found that Sanji hadn't properly entertained his guest? They always checked. Always. Sanji's body began to shake in earnest as he contemplated the punishment that They would inflict if he just let his guest leave. They wouldn't care that the man hadn't been interested. His word meant nothing, even if he was telling the truth.

"Please don't go!" he blurted just before the man's hand reached the door knob. Sanji slowly repositioned himself on the bed, spreading his legs and rolling his hips forward, meeting his guest's stunned eye with his best seductive expression. However, his act quickly withered under the intense gaze. Sanji dropped his head. "P-Please stay? If you don't…If I don't, They'll…"

Sanji could feel the man's deep frown from across the room, though he didn't look up.

"What's your name?"

Sanji twitched, startled by the question. None of his other guests had ever asked before.

"Well?" The man sounded slightly impatient, and Sanji saw him cross his arms in his peripheral vision. "You've got a name, don't you? Or did you let them take that from you too?"

For the first time in months, Sanji felt indignant rage flare in his chest, even in spite of the drugs dulling his senses. Just who the hell did this fucking grass green bastard think he was?

"I didn't just _let_ them take anything!" he snapped, meeting the stranger's calm gaze with a furious one. "You don't know what it's like here! You can't! I—They—"

All of the emotions that he had pushed aside and buried swelled to the surface. The anger and defiance he thought had been lost mingled with his despair and hopelessness, jumbling his thoughts and snatching his words away before he could form them. His hands opened and closed behind his back, suddenly feeling much more uncomfortable in their bonds than they had before. He wanted to rip away the damned irritating ribbon and kick the crap out of the bastard, feeling another surge of frustration when the expression on the man's face softened from judgment to pity.

"I don't need you pity!" spat Sanji, just then noticing the hot tears running over his cheeks. "If you want to leave so badly, then just go! I don't care! They can do whatever they want with me! It doesn't matter anymore! They can kill me for all I care! They can—"

His eyes flicked to the locked and bolted door of the walk-in closet beside the bathroom, fear gnawing at his anger and stealing his words away. He had let his emotions run wild and spoken too soon. This man seemed important, and if he told Them what he had just heard—an involuntary shudder ran through Sanji's body.

"How long have you been here?" asked the man, the steely edge to his voice long gone.

"Three months, I think," answered Sanji off-handedly, never taking his eyes from the closet door as if he was waiting for it to spontaneously open and reveal the horrors within. Part of him was convinced that it would. "It's hard to tell. I try to count the days, but I think sometimes I miss some."

The mattress beside him sank slightly, making Sanji twitch in surprise; he hadn't noticed the man cross the room. He felt calloused fingers touch at his chin, pulling his attention away from the closet at the other side of the room. Sanji recoiled slightly. There was still pity lingering in the one grey eye, though he guessed that he probably was pretty pitiful at this point. A thumb wiped at a tear that had won the race to his jaw line.

"They'll hurt you, won't they?" the man said quietly, suddenly awkward instead of imposing. He pulled his hand away from Sanji's face, gesturing between the two of them. "I mean, if we don't…"

Sanji sniffed and gulped, half meeting the man's eye, and nodded. The man scowled, and Sanji saw his hands flex in his lap.

"I'll need your name then," he ordered.

Sanji pressed his lips together.

"I don't sleep with strangers," he explained. "So, you can either tell me your name, or I'll just g—"

"Sanji." He saw the man's eyebrows rise. "My name…My name is Sanji."

The man's lips quirked in a small, half-hearted smile. "Well, Sanji, how do you want to do this?"

There was another question that no one had asked before. Sanji bit his lip, unsure of what to say. The tentative calloused hand reached out again, caressing his cheek and jaw before gently grabbing hold of his chin and pulling him forward into a kiss. Sanji winced against the surprise action, suddenly much more aware of the red ribbon wrapped around his body. The other man simply held him in place, their lips pressed together, and waited for him to relax.

Sanji sat frozen, taking in the stranger's face, blurry from proximity, with wide eyes. His green hair looked softer up close, and there was a very small imperfection in the seemingly straight line of his nose that betrayed past damage. Closing his eyes, Sanji took in a deep calming breath. The man smelled like a combination between off-brand soap, coffee, and a bit of sweat; nothing like the sharp expensive cologne of his other guests. Breathing out, he parted his lips, leaning further into the man in invitation. He felt the hand on his chin slide around and palm the back of his head, holding him steady as a tongue slipped into his mouth, exploring but not invading.

After several minutes, Sanji found himself balanced on the edge of relaxation and tension. He wasn't being pushed or forced, but the cocktail of drugs still coursed through his body. Hypersensitive skin picked up every little touch, and the constant stimulus of the deep kiss sent wave after wave of sensation southwards. His cock throbbed painfully with want, and the tightly wound ribbon was all that was keeping him from falling over the edge just from the kiss. Then he felt the fingertips of the hand that wasn't tangled in his hair brush against his tip as it searched for the bow in the ribbon.

"Don't," he breathed, breaking the kiss.

The man pulled away and studied him, concern darkening his good eye. There was an aroused blush coloring his cheeks, and Sanji was certain that his own complexion mirrored the bright color. The man's eye flicked downward and then back up to meet Sanji's.

"That can't be comfortable." He leaned forward and kissed him again, distracting the blonde as he made to free him once more.

"Stop." The word came out more of a whine than an order. Sanji remained close to the man, their lips brushing as he tried to find the words to explain. "If you…I…They drugged…I won't last."

"Then what _can_ I do?" asked the man, sounding slightly irritated.

Sanji thought for a moment. "Arms."

Instantly understanding him, the man reached around behind him, wrapping Sanji in a sort of awkward hug as he worked at untying the ribbon. The man seemed to the struggling a little with the tight knots around his wrists, but he gave no sign of frustration as he worked, not even tensing when Sanji nuzzled his face into his shoulder. The cotton shirt stretched over the firm muscles was soft, and Sanji sighed as he buried his face into the fabric. He had always taken clothing for granted in his former life. Now it was a luxury that he would give anything for.

Finally after several minutes of work, Sanji felt the ribbon around his arms loosen enough that he could pull them free. No sooner had the man unwrapped his arms from around his body, than Sanji reciprocated, flinging his own around the stranger's neck and rewarding his efforts with a firm kiss. With their lips still locked together, Sanji took advantage of his new leverage to shift closer to the man until he was straddling his lap, their bodies pressed against one another. As Sanji leaned against him, he could feel the growing bulge trying to fight its way free of the man's pants, and only half-managed to suppress another shiver.

"Do we need to stop?" murmured the man, pulling away and frowning slightly as he saw the hesitation on Sanji's face. The surprisingly gentle calloused hands began to rub soothingly at Sanji's back, leaving trails of warmth on his cold skin. "I don't want to force you to do anything you don't want to do."

Sanji merely shook his head. He was already being forced, though not by the man beneath him. Rather than vocalize an answer, Sanji chose action instead, reaching down and hurriedly unfastening and unzipping the man's pants. Leaning forward as if to kiss him again, he slipped his hand into the denim and palmed the tightly stretched fabric of the man's briefs.

By now the drugs in Sanji's body were in full effect. Every nerve ending hummed with anticipation and he could feel more and more pressure building and coiling down below. He needed to get this over with and fast, or he wouldn't make it to the end of this encounter. With slow motions, he began to massage the man's cock through his underwear, earning a shudder and a moan, and the hands that had been running over his back stopped mid-motion to grip tightly at his hips. Soon, three months of experience told him that the man was ready as well. Pulling his hand away, Sanji reached up once again, playing with the green hair as he whispered as seductively as possible in the man's ear.

"Do it, please?" Sanji had been trained to say these words, to beg his guests for more. This part was more ritual than anything else, and he fully expected the man to immediately comply. He leaned in closer, their bodies touching on every plane possible and his lips brushing the man's ear as he spoke. "I want you to fuck me."

Any other guest would have—and had—jumped at those words. Within the blink of an eye, Sanji would have found himself thrown against the headboard, and brutally and often viciously used until he was full and the other was empty. The man, however, simply pulled away and studied him for a moment, his face unreadable as he assessed his partner for the night. Sanji squirmed on his lap, more than a little uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze, especially when he could feel both of their erections twitching and weeping between them. The thin lips twitched down in a small frown and arched green-tinged eyebrows furrowed slightly as the man seemed to reach some sort of decision; then Sanji felt his grip around his waist tighten as he was lifted and gently laid on his back with his head cradled in the pillows.

Thrown off guard by the smooth, deliberate action, Sanji lay on the flattened duvet in stunned silence, simply watching as the man stripped off his clothes, first removing his shirt followed closely by his pants, socks, and underwear. If he had thought the scar over the man's eye had a violent story, it paled in comparison to the jagged gash that cut diagonally across his chest and stomach, running a path from shoulder to hip. Just who was this guy? Everything about him screamed dangerous brutality, yet he had been nothing but gentle. Sanji's eyes continued to flick over the man's body, taking in the every tanned and sculpted detail, and he felt his mouth run dry.

The man arched an eyebrow at the blonde's mute staring. "You ready?"

Sanji nodded dumbly, his mind rapidly derailing as he watched the man spit into his hand and rub it onto himself in preparation. The muscles in his back tensed involuntarily when his legs and hips were lifted from the mattress, and his breath caught in his lungs when the man aligned himself. His guest hesitated for a moment, as if not entirely convinced of his decision, and then he drove in.

Sanji's back arched and he gasped as his tight rings of muscle were penetrated. Reaching up, he gripped at the pillow with one hand and put the knuckles of the other in his mouth to stifle any noise, moaning into the sweaty skin when the man slowly pulled out and pushed in again, increasing the intensity and rate with every thrust of his hips. Soon the unrelenting itch of arousal became unbearable, causing him to buck his hips upward in the man's grip, catching him off guard in the middle of a particularly hard thrust.

Stars exploded behind Sanji's eyelids, and he nearly bit through the skin of his knuckles when the man hit his prostate, sending a whole new tidal wave of heat and pressure rocketing for his cock. The ribbon had to go. Now. The muscles in his back and legs tensed and released around the other man, and he could hear him groan and shudder in response.

"Take it—Take it off," Sanji moaned, his own limbs completely useless under the onslaught of stimulation.

The man needed no second bidding. Letting go of his hips with one hand, he quickly found the end and pulled the ribbon away. Sanji's pulse thudded hard and fast in the engorged organ, his back arching from the ecstasy of freedom. The deep well of heat that had been dammed up behind the confining ribbon rushed forth, and Sanji was unable to suppress a loud gasping moan as he came between the two of them, splashing their naked bodies and the sheets. Sanji's muscles spasmed and shook as the orgasm rocked through his body, and the man didn't last much longer.

With a grunt and a groan, he spilled inside of Sanji, filling him completely and providing the proof that They would seek later. Pulling out, he slumped onto the mattress beside him, one arm slung tiredly over Sanji's body. They lay in a simultaneously awkward and comfortable silence until the all too familiar cold gripped Sanji again and he began to shiver.

Noticing his shaking, the man cracked his good eye open and then, without a word, pulled him closer and trapped him in a firm embrace. The man's body seemed to radiate warmth, and Sanji slowly but surely felt his shuddering subside and his muscles relax in the cocoon of heat. Tucking his arms in close to his body, he snuggled closer to the man, burrowing his face into his shoulder. Normally, he couldn't sleep until his guests left the room and were well away, but there was something so comforting about his strange new mossy-headed companion. He had been so different from the others, and Sanji soon felt himself drifting off, locked securely in his embrace.

"You falling asleep on me?" The man's deep rumble vibrated soothingly throughout his body.

Sanji hummed in response, and nuzzled in deeper. He was on the edge of slumber. He hadn't felt this comfortable since before he had been taken.

"Oi, Sanji, listen to me." The man gave him a slight shake, waking him enough to hear what he had to say before exhaustion shut down his mind and body completely. "I will save you from this place. I promise."

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I'm half tempted to continue this, but I'm not sure. We'll see what kind of feedback there is. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

After a frankly phenomenal response and a thinly veiled death threat, I figured I ought to add this to my pile of projects. So, this is now a multi-chapter, with a loosely formed plot and everything.

For those of you who read CMD and are going "What the fuck? Update that shit!" I'm working on it, I promise. I've been struggling with it for the last month, but continue to circle back to it. It is not abandoned, I swear.

Anyway, on with the formalities...

This fic is **rated M**.

I do not own One Piece.

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Sanji shivered as he watched the tiny snowflakes swirl outside his window. He used to love the first snow of the season. It had always seemed so magical, seeing those initial light little flakes dance from grey clouds. Their coming signaled the beginning of one of his favorite seasons, when everything was covered in a beautiful layer of pure white, and he got to wear layers upon layers of soft warm clothing, and cook rich foods that coated the palette and settled inside in a wonderfully heavy way. Now, it was only cold and dreary. The dark tint on his massive window cast an ominous hue over his favorite precipitation, making the snow seem sullen and the clouds oppressive. And the window did nothing to insulate against the frigid temperature. His already cool room suddenly seemed that much colder, and no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in his thin blankets, Sanji just couldn't seem to warm himself.

But then again, everything seemed colder since the man had left.

It had been nearly a week since he had entertained the odd green-haired man. He had been so unlike the others, and Sanji's mind constantly wandered back to him. Every waking and sleeping moment was occupied by visions of the violent scars and battle-ready body juxtaposed against the gentle touches and concerned expression. He wanted so badly to remain within that unreadable gunmetal eye, to run his hands through the oddly colored hair, and, most of all, to be wrapped in that warm embrace. As Sanji continued to shiver, nearly convinced that he should be able to see his own breath, he guessed that he missed the man's radiator-like warmth the most. The few hours that he had slept in the man's arms were the most comfortable that he had been since his abduction, with the heat running out of the tanned skin and soaking into him, reaching all the way to his core. His slumber within the man's embrace had been deep and dreamless, blissfully devoid of his typical nightmares and half-awake hallucinations. When he had awoken the next morning to the feeling of his guest untangling himself from his pale limbs and the stained bed linens, it had taken all of Sanji's self control to not beg him to stay.

The cold of his room instantly felt more potent the moment the man climbed out of the bed and began to gather his clothing that was scattered across the worn carpet. Sanji's all too familiar shivering and shaking took over his body within minutes, and the man's jaw had tightened when he saw it, his eye flashing with that terrifying rage. He had leant in and caressed Sanji's face with his wide calloused palm, his body heat feeling white hot against Sanji's cold cheek. The man hadn't said anything, merely frowning as he studied the blonde, holding his blue eyes captive with his steely gaze as he plotted out some silent plan.

There had once been a time when Sanji would have defiantly held the stare, not backing down or even flinching until his opponent admitted defeat. It was a trait that had made him so formidable in the kitchen and had allowed him to climb to the rank of sous-chef in the cutthroat industry at such a young age. But the months of mistreatment that left no physical scars on his body, and the angst of loneliness and worry had gnawed away at his will and weakened his resolve; and he had withered under the scrutinizing gaze, shrinking away from the warmth of the man's hand and retreating under the thin covers. The man had given him an odd look then, confusion flashing across his features before he turned and retrieved his coat from the couch and headed for the door.

"I'll keep my promise to you, I swear," he'd said just as his hand reached the knob.

Sanji had only stared at him from the bed with wide eyes, finding his tongue to be quite uncooperative in light of the sudden overwhelming sense of loss that he felt at the other side of the bed being empty. The man had studied him for a moment longer, his frown deepening ever so slightly.

"Well, I'll see you soon." And then he was gone.

He had sat perfectly still but for the quivering of his cold muscles for the better part of the morning, going over every moment of his encounter with the man. Sanji relived it over and over in his mind, trying to better understand what had just happened. Every time, he came back to the same single moment when he had first found himself pressed against that warm body and wrapped in the comforting embrace. The memory was fuzzy—he had been nearly asleep when the man had spoken those words—but they still filtered through and echoed around inside his mind.

"_I will save you from this place. I promise."_

Sanji furrowed his brow and pulled the blankets more tightly around his body, disrupting his pillows and sending the "Home Sweet Home" pillow tumbling to the floor. He still didn't entirely understand what the man had meant. The sentence seemed straightforward enough, but in the end it could only be an empty promise. How exactly did he intend to free him? They had complete control over everything. Hell, Sanji was fairly convinced that They probably even had means of watching him remotely. He wouldn't be at all surprised if his encounters with his varying house guests were recorded and kept. Nor would he be shocked to discover that videos and images of Them "breaking him in" were making their rounds on the internet.

How exactly did the man intend to sneak him through the building and past the guards, especially when he was naked? Sanji had never been allowed to leave his room, so he had no idea of the size or layout of the building, but guessed that it must be quite large given the staggering number of stories he was above the ground.

Another question nagged at him. Why? What had been so special about him that would make this stranger want to risk so much? He wasn't the first to express interest in taking Sanji away from his prison, though the word "save" had never come into the equation before. More often than not, when the subject came up, the operative verb used was "buy".

One guest in particular had been very insistent. A local businessman, whose face Sanji had immediately recognized from the news. He was most famous for owning a large casino just outside of the city, and his ruthless business strategy and the frequency with which his rivals met violent ends had earned him the nickname "Sir Crocodile". He had been one of Sanji's first house guests, and he had decided right away that the name suited the man. Crocodile was tall, broad shouldered, and obviously physically powerful. A jagged scar cut horizontally over his nose and across his face, running parallel to his wide, grinning mouth. Sanji still remembered the fear that had clutched at his heart when those hungry, heavy-lidded eyes first trailed over his body. He felt his pulse quicken just at the thought of the brutal man, and gave his head a violent shake in hopes of clearing it away. Crocodile had just been with him the night before, having left early that morning, meaning that he wouldn't be back for another visit for at least a week.

Sanji's back twinged with pain, and he adjusted his position, flopping over onto his side with the blankets still wrapped around him. His entire body ached in the aftermath of Crocodile's visit. It always did. The businessman didn't really have any specific kinks, per se, but he still stood out from the others with his violence and brutality. He had taken to Sanji the moment he had laid eyes on him, seemingly attracted to the combination of his blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. He was always so eager to see what new ways he could devise to discolor Sanji's pale flesh, his visits always ending with Sanji bruised and sore. And he also bled. Every time he bled, though not from any external wound.

Crocodile preferred to bed his "Prince"—as he had taken to calling Sanji—raw. He would pin Sanji to the bed, or the couch, or the wall, or whatever was convenient, and drive into him repeatedly until he screamed and cried and they were both slick with blood. Then Crocodile would come, pulling at Sanji's hair and abusing his cock with rough hands until he was utterly spent. If Sanji was lucky, he would be allowed to lay in cold silence at the edge of the bed for the rest of the night while his guest slept off his high. Last night had been different, however. Something in the outside world must have upset him, because Crocodile had been in a foul mood from the moment he arrived, filled with the odd energy created by agitation. He had stayed awake the entire night, using Sanji's body for his every whim over and over with little to no break in between.

When he'd left, They hadn't even bothered to check on Sanji, not even to send one of their doctors. Instead, Sanji had cleaned himself as best as he could in the sink, using small handfuls of water to wash away the blood dried on his backside and the insides of his legs. He had winced every time his fingers came in contact with a fresh bruise, biting his lip to avoid making a sound. The marks that Crocodile had left this time were deep, plunging from his paper thin skin, through weakened muscle, and straight to the bone. He limped with every step he took and flinched at every move he made, having to use the walls and furniture to support himself as he made his agonizingly slow journey from the bathroom to the bed.

Sanji had spent the entire rest of the day there, huddled beneath the sheets, watching the snow fall in lieu of sleeping. At some point during the day, They had sent the muscle-bound blonde guard up with food and a message: Sanji would be having company tonight. Sanji had taken in the information quietly, ever careful to avoid making eye contact with the man, Bellamy, in hopes of avoiding inciting any sort of violence. And he was successful, apart from the cursory smack upside the head that he received as the guard sought to assert his dominance.

His meal had been tasteless as usual, a bland sticky oatmeal that he was only able to choke down out of sheer will. Sanji had swallowed each heaping spoonful whole, focusing on his meager meal and doing his best to ignore Bellamy's taunts about his animalistic eating habits. He hadn't always been this way. There had been a time when he had enjoyed lavish meals made from the best ingredients there were. Working in a five star restaurant guaranteed no less, and Sanji's refined and carefully trained taste buds protested with every bite. By the end of every meal, his mouth and stomach ached with longing, resulting in him feeling emptier than he had before eating the flavorless slop They called food.

As soon as the door closed behind Bellamy and the heavy bolt on the other side slid shut, Sanji had hidden beneath his blankets once again, resuming his vigil over the falling snow. It was mid-afternoon, according to the old flip-tab clock on his bedside table, and his guest wouldn't arrive until eleven, meaning that he still had several hours of waiting before They sent in someone to prepare him. Sanji clenched his jaw, wincing as he drew his knees up to his chest; the movement sending spikes of pain running up and down his back. He didn't want to think about what They would do to him in preparation. Part of him hoped that whatever drugs They gave him might numb some of his lingering pain, but the fear of addiction kept the thought at bay.

Sanji's mind began to wander as he tried to distract himself from the ever agonizing wait. At first, he tried to imagine himself back in his kitchen, but he couldn't seem to grasp his typical refuge. Instead, every thought he had seemed to circle back to the green-haired man. He didn't want to take the man's promise of rescue too seriously. After all, they had only known each other for one night; it made no sense for him to risk so much to save him. And, for all Sanji knew, he would just end up in a different version of the same situation. Or—Sanji frowned and shivered as the thought occurred to him—They were using the man to test him. What if he went along with whatever it was the man was planning only to fall into some trap? Even with his back facing the room, he could feel the weight of the closet and its contents at the opposite end; the feeling boring into his back as if the bolted door had eyes.

No, it was better not to trust the man, as much as he wanted to. It would be better for him, as They had told him, to just accept his fate. But that didn't mean that he couldn't find comfort in the man's warm embrace. Just imagining those strong arms wrapped around his body, hugging him close as he drifted off to sleep, scattered Sanji's panic and despair, allowing his eyelids to droop tiredly as he finally relaxed.

* * *

Sanji startled awake, his entire body a shivering mass of twitching nerves and jerking muscles. His heart pounded madly in his chest, and he could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. He sat bolt upright, flinging the blankets to the side, and scanned the room with wide eyes. Completely disoriented by his mysteriously rough awakening, it took his fatigued mind several minutes to register his surroundings. All too soon though, his memory caught up with his other senses, and he remembered where he was. There was the couch, the armchair, the—Sanji shuddered—the closet, the bathroom, the heavy entertainment center, and his massive window.

As he scanned his room, his gaze landed on his reflection in the wall-size mirror at the foot end of the bed. Sanji sat and quietly studied himself as he waited for his panicked heart rate to slow. There was a reason he always avoided his reflection. It was a brutal reminder of what he had become.

The Sanji that looked out at him from the aged and faded glass wouldn't have been recognizable to his friends and family. He had lost a considerable amount of weight in captivity; not so much from a lack of nutrition, but from his inability to keep his meals down with any amount of consistency. He wasn't necessarily underweight, but his muscles lacked the definition that they had had when he was free. Though he had always been fair, his skin was almost translucent in its paleness, and as he studied himself, it suddenly occurred to Sanji that he looked nothing short of frail. Reaching up with a shaking hand, he brushed aside the limp blonde hair that hung over his right eye, revealing the dark bruise that Crocodile had left the night before. Even with the darkened skin contrasting against his blue eyes, the once bright hue seemed faded. Sanji felt a whole new wave of sorrow swell in his chest, congealing in his lungs and making it hard to breathe. Months ago, he would never have imagined the possibility of it, but They had managed to break him. He was a shell of the man he had once been, and even if he ever got to leave, he doubted that there would be enough of him left for the effort to be worthwhile.

His eyes began to burn with unshed tears, and he crammed the heels of his hands into them in an attempt to trap the moisture inside; choking down a loud sob when the action put undue pressure on his black eye. Now wasn't the time to be crying. He had a guest coming, and he would get into a whole new breed of trouble if he ruined the mood. Sniffing, he rapidly blinked his tears away, wiping at the dampness on his cheeks and erasing any trails that may have been left behind as he turned to check the time.

11:33 p.m.

Sanji's heart froze. His guest should have arrived at eleven. For that matter, They should have woken him up hours ago to prepare him. Why had they let him sleep? He swallowed hard. Had he missed a day? It happened now and again. He would fall asleep, only to wake up sore, raw, and covered in foreign fluids. Panicking slightly, he patted himself down, wincing as his fingers met more of Crocodile's bruises. The painful marks on his ribs, arms, and legs were still fresh, and his backside still ached with the same potency. Sanji let out a small sigh of relief. So he hadn't lost a day.

But then, where was his guest? Had whoever-it-was cancelled? He balled the thin sheets on either side of him in his hands. He had had the occasional cancellation before, and that had never meant a night off for him. As much as the unknown of his guests terrified him, having to spend the night with any one of Them scared him more.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Sanji wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face in the blankets draped over the thin limbs. All he could do was wait. It was all he could ever do.

For several minutes, he sat perfectly still, trying his best to focus only on the sound of his slightly uneven breathing and to not think about who might walk through the door. When he did finally hear the bolts slide back, every single muscle in his body tensed, and his shivering became that much more violent. He wanted to look up, but at the same time he didn't; some small part of him hoping that if he angered whoever was currently on the other side of the door enough, that They might just kill him. His grip around his knees intensified, his fingers digging painfully into the bruised skin, and his breath caught in his throat as he heard the door swing open.

His guest didn't say a word, the sounds of the footsteps slightly muffled by the polyester carpet. Sanji heard something—likely a coat—land on the couch to his right, and then felt the edge of his mattress sink under the weight of an extra body. He stopped breathing entirely when a large hand caressed the back of his head, the fingers running through the once silken strands. The wide palm felt so warm, even through his abused scalp, almost like—

Sanji snapped his head up, startling the green-haired man's hand away. His mouth ran dry as he stared into the one grey eye. He really had come back.

They simply stared at each other with wide eyes for several minutes, before the man finally broke the contest, looking away with an uncharacteristically bashful expression on his face as he rubbed at the back of his head.

"Er, sorry I'm late," he muttered, seemingly unwilling to meet Sanji's eyes as he attempted to explain himself. "I got a little turned around trying to find the place, and—"

Sanji couldn't stand to listen anymore. Never before had he been so happy to see anyone in his life. After spending so many agonizing hours anticipating the worst, his late guest was none other than the oblivious, mossy-headed man that had brought him so much comfort only a week ago. Unable to contain himself, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the man's thick muscled neck, and silencing his apology with a kiss.

For a moment, the man seemed to forget himself, and reciprocated the intimate gesture, before coming to his senses and pushing Sanji away. Sanji winced at the man's firm grip on his bruised arms, dropping his head in a mixture of submission and shame under the scrutinizing gunmetal stare. He could feel the man looking at him. Just as the week before with the ribbon, that one eye moved over his body, playing connect-the-dots with his multitude of bruises. The grip around his arms lessened, and then the man finally let him go.

"What _happened_?" The man's voice was quiet, but there was a dangerous edge to his words.

Sanji merely shrugged. How could he possibly explain? How could he make the man understand? Not all of his guests were so gentle. Hell, _none_ of his other guests were as gentle.

"Oi, look at me," said the man, his tone significantly softened. A hand hooked gently under Sanji's chin and raised it as the other brushed aside his hair. Sanji averted his eyes once again when he saw the man react to his blackened eye. The man pressed his lips together, a deep frown creasing his face, and then let the blonde hair fall back into place. "Who did this to you?"

"What does it matter to you?" muttered Sanji, still unwilling to meet the intense, searching gaze.

"It matters."

"Why?"

"Because, it does."

Sanji remained silent, trying and failing to break free of the grip on his chin.

"Tell me."

He clenched his jaw, his eyebrows drawing together as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. The man's hold on his chin tightened just enough to make him wince.

"Sanji, _tell me_," the man pleaded.

"Why?!" Sanji finally snapped, meeting the man's gaze once more. He slapped the hand on his face away. "What do you care?! What would you even do?! It's not like you can help!"

The man gave him a pitying look, and Sanji felt rage swell in his chest again. He still couldn't understand how the damned moss ball could insight such rage and feeling in him, when only moments before he had given up. His hands balled into fists as he glared at the man, old fire igniting in his heart.

"What the hell makes me so special?!" he spat. "I'm just some pathetic…_thing_ you got to fuck, probably for free! You don't"—He choked on his words, lashing out with his hands in an attempt to push the man away.—"You don't even know anything about me!"

The man let him shove him once, and then caught his wrists when Sanji attempted to hit him again. His frown was deep and sad, and it only made Sanji angrier.

"That's not true," said the man so quietly that Sanji almost didn't hear him over his pounding pulse and the roaring air conditioner.

"What the hell do you mean, 'that's not true'?" snarled Sanji, trying and failing to break free of his inhumanly strong grip. "I'm just a piece of ass to you! That's all I am to any—"

"Your name is Sanji Black."

Sanji froze. He had never given the man his last name. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, the man continued.

"Your name is Sanji Black. You were adopted when you were ten. Your adoptive father's name is Zeff…"

Sanji's heart felt like it had jumped into his throat, and he felt the color drain from his face, but the man was unrelenting.

"…You're a cook. You work at a restaurant called The Baratie. It's a fancy place…" He gave Sanji's wrists a slight squeeze and smirked. "…but it's probably overrated."

Sanji couldn't breathe. His mouth was painfully dry and his eyes burned at the reminder of his former life. The man's expression darkened as he moved on with his monologue.

"You went missing 106 days ago. The media coverage was pretty intense at first, but even after all this time, your father hasn't stopped looking."

"Stop." The order escaped Sanji's lips as a whisper, and the man pointedly ignored it.

"There are missing signs posted in the windows of The Baratie. None of the staff have lost hope."

"Stop it."

"Zeff still goes to the local police station every week for updates."

Sanji swallowed thickly, his demands growing stronger with every passing minute. "Stop."

"He's put up all of his savings as a reward for information that leads to finding you."

Something inside Sanji snapped. Angry tears poured down his cheeks as his heart broke over the brutal reminder of the life he had lost. "Stop it! Just-Just stop! What's the point?! Why are you telling me this?!"

"The _point_," the man said, his voice firm, "is that you are missed; you're important; and you are more than the shivering shell of a man hiding away under these fucking blankets on this shitty bed."

The words were brutal and honest and took Sanji completely by surprise. He swallowed hard and sniffed, but held the man's intense gaze. The man's grip on his wrists slackened, and he smirked.

"Even now, you haven't given up completely; even though you think you have."

A mixture of cold, tension, and emotion shook at Sanji's body, his eyebrows knitting together as he struggled to find any lie in the man's words. Was everything he was saying true? But he had been so convinced of the hopelessness of his circumstances. He was so certain that he had been forgotten, that any attempt at escape was futile, that no one missed him; They had made sure of it.

"You're lying," Sanji tried to insist, his voice shaking. "You're lying. You're lying, you're lying, you're lying, you're lying." He sniffed and gulped. "You're lying."

The man continued to pin him in place with his unwavering grey eye. He didn't answer.

Sanji was finding it hard to see, his vision completely blurred. His shoulders shook with every ragged breath. "Please. Please, tell me you're lying."

The man simply stared at him. Sanji broke.

"Please, please tell me you're lying." He lunged forward, finally breaking free of the man's gaze and his grip as he buried his face in his shoulder, his tears rapidly soaking the familiar cotton. Each sob shook his body like a seizure, his breaths coming in desperate gulps as he struggled for air around the unshed tears and snot that ran down the back of his throat. "Please…please…"

Calloused hands rubbed soothingly at his bare back, their steady movements working toward calming his uneven breathing and erratic thoughts. Eventually, Sanji's emotional quaking subsided as his body settled back into its seemingly permanent shivering. After several minutes, the hands running over his back stopped and the man pulled away.

"When I make a promise, I keep it," said the man, his firm tone demanding that Sanji meet his steely gaze once more. Much to his surprise, Sanji somehow managed, his formerly shattered psyche reinvigorated by the man's presence. Gentle fingers wiped at the moisture collected on his flushed cheeks, and the man gave him a small but reassuring smile. "But there's no point in trying, if you've given up."

The man's thumb caught on the wetted skin on his cheek, pulling at it oddly and prompting Sanji to pull his face away. He sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.

"You were wrong about one thing," said Sanji, his voice still thick from crying.

The man quirked an eyebrow at the statement, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"I'm not a cook."

Something flashed in the grey eye, and for a moment Sanji thought he might be inciting anger in the man. Sanji grinned weakly.

"I'm a _chef_."

The man's face split into a wide, victorious smile. With one quick movement, he wrapped a hand around the back of Sanji's head and pulled him in for a kiss. Sanji hesitated for only a millisecond before throwing himself whole-heartedly into the affectionate act, relishing as much in the comforting heat of the man's body as he did in the passion of the kiss. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting for air.

"You're a shitty cook, and you'll accept it," goaded the man with a playful tug at Sanji's hair.

Sanji leaned forward then, hurriedly unfastening the man's jeans with practiced movements and reaching inside. He gave him a brief, hard kiss as he massaged his member to life, and pulled away just far enough that their lips brushed against one another as he spoke.

"Fuck you," breathed Sanji, grinning against the man's mouth.

"We'll see about that," he retorted.

With firm yet gentle hands, and ever careful to avoid the multitude of bruises that riddled Sanji's body, the man pushed him back against the hard pillows, pinning him in place with his presence alone as he pulled off his clothes. Sanji silently reveled in the sight of the tanned naked body. His other guests rarely, if ever, completely stripped in his company. What the man did evened the playing field, and, on some level, made him feel as if they were equals.

Once he'd completely freed himself of his confining clothing, the man leaned in, crawling over Sanji's prone form, and began to plant one kiss after another on his face. Starting with the center of his forehead, he targeted the few remaining spots of unmarred flesh, licking at the dried tears on Sanji's cheeks, and making his way down to his jaw, his chin, and his neck. The man paused momentarily at his collarbone, sucking gently on the well created by the natural contour in a way that made Sanji gasp and made his blood rush south. He felt the man grin, his teeth brushing against but not puncturing his skin before continuing his path downward, trailing one sloppy kiss after another down Sanji's chest and stomach. All too soon, he could feel the man's hot breath against the soft trail of hair leading from his navel to his groin, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

"What're you—What're you doing?" asked Sanji, his voice cracking under the strain of arousal.

The man planted a firm kiss just above his twitching cock, smiling against the abnormally heated flesh. Sanji's legs began to quiver on either side of the man's head when he only got another teasing kiss in response.

"I-I'm supposed to…We're supposed to…"

"We have all night for that," said the man, his deep voice vibrating throughout Sanji's body. "When was the last time someone pleasured _you_?"

Any answer that Sanji might have attempted vanished from his mind when the man moved downward, running his tongue leisurely up the underside of his cock, tracing the suddenly very rigid line from base to tip. Sanji gasped, his back arching at the sensation, and grabbed at the man's oddly colored hair, clenching the green strands tightly in balled up fists. Encouraged by the aroused response, the man kept going, planting kisses along the quivering length and then taking Sanji into his mouth whole.

Sanji's hips bucked upwards, involuntarily moving him deeper into the wet heat of the man's very talented mouth. An oddly powerful tongue swirled around his cock, coating it in saliva, while the mouth busied itself with sucking on the sensitized organ. Sanji clutched at the green hair more tightly, his short nails digging into the man's scalp as he felt heat and tension pool down below. If his hair pulling hurt, the man didn't seem to care. His pace never lessened as he continued his relentless stimulation, gently running his teeth up Sanji's cock, pausing only to tease at his tip with barely there nips and generous licks.

By now, Sanji's heart was thundering in his chest, and he could feel every single one of the rapid beats in his cock; the up-tempo rhythm pulsating around the man's lips. The familiar unscratchable itch of near orgasm ran rampant through his groin before collecting in beads of pre-cum that dripped from his head and mingled with the man's spit. Sanji's breathing grew more and more ragged by the second, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer.

"I'm—I'm going to…ngh—"

His back arched again, and he clamped his legs shut around the man's head when he felt the very dexterous tongue dart into his slit, burrowing eagerly down into the leaking well. With a breathless gasp, Sanji came, spilling into the man's mouth, his entire body shaking with the intense orgasm. When he was finally empty, the man gave him one last suck before releasing his withering member and sitting back. Locking Sanji with his intense gaze once again, the man swallowed and wiped at a bit of cum collected at the corner of his mouth.

"So, how was it?" teased the man, flashing Sanji another victorious grin.

For several minutes, Sanji only managed harsh panting, his mind scattered completely by his orgasm. When he finally did remember how to speak, it was in a halting stutter that he would have been ashamed of under normal circumstances.

"Y-You…You bas-bastard."

The man's grin widened, and he crawled across the bed to lie down next to Sanji, wrapping him in a firm embrace and pulling the covers over them before the chill of the room could take effect. Sanji snuggled closer, pressing his back against the man's oddly warm body, and breathing a contented sigh. The man planted a kiss on the back of his head, lacing his tanned fingers through Sanji's pale ones. When Sanji felt the man's chin rest on his shoulder, he turned his head slightly, his eyelashes brushing against the man's cheek as he took in the close up view.

"Thank you," he murmured, somehow managing to make eye contact despite the awkward angle and proximity. Sanji turned away. "I'd forgotten…just…thank you."

The man simply hugged him closer in response, not even complaining when he trapped Sanji's icicle-like feet between his legs. They lay in comfortable silence for several minutes, and Sanji allowed himself to relax. Perhaps the man really was telling the truth when he'd said he would save him. Maybe he really did care. After all, the man had—

Sanji paused mid-thought and frowned.

"What's your name?" he asked, giving the fingers entwined around his a slight squeeze. The man pulled away, and Sanji turned to face him. When he didn't receive an answer, he frowned. "Well?"

"I can't tell you," the man responded.

Sanji bristled. "What? Why? You know all this shit about me, and I don't even get to know your name?!"

The man studied him for a moment, frowning as he tried to decide upon a course of action. "I can't tell you my real name, but I don't want to lie to you."

"Well, I have to call you _something_," said Sanji, pouting slightly.

The man hummed. "Why don't you call me 'Swordsman'?"

Sanji smirked. "What are you, a super hero? No way." He thought for a moment. "Your hair is green like a moss ball. How about I call you…Marimo?"

"Oi, oi," growled the man in mock-warning, his eye flashing with a combination of annoyance and amusement. "Fine then. If I'm 'Marimo', then you're 'Curlybrow'."

Sanji bristled at the new nickname, opening his mouth to protest before being silenced by a kiss and a firm hug. Grumbling inwardly, he allowed himself to be held in the warm embrace. He huffed against the man's chest. "Fine."

He felt Marimo rest his chin on top of his head, and moved deeper into his arms. He had been right, the two of them did have all night to be together. There was nothing stopping him from enjoying the comfort of the moment. Tucking his arms in close to his body, Sanji allowed the heat of Marimo's body to soak into his core.

Sanji smiled hopefully. "Marimo and Curlybrow, huh? I think I could live with that."


	3. Chapter 3

It's finally done. *dies*

Thanks to everyone that faved and followed, and an _extra special_ thanks to the lovelies that reviewed! (I thrive off of reviews. They make me so happy.)

Anyway, sorry for the wait. On with the show.

This fic is **rate M. **

I do not own One Piece.

* * *

Sanji's teeth wouldn't stop chattering. He had tried over and over to halt the action, even clenching his jaw hard enough that he thought his molars would crack; but nothing seemed to work. No matter what he did, his teeth continued to clack against one another at the same steady pace. The agonizingly loud sound vibrated around inside his head and seemed to echo in the small bathroom, bouncing off of the cracked linoleum tile floor and the faded fiberglass tub. His teeth and his gums ached, and his jaw muscles were stiff and throbbing, but, he decided, the worst part of it was that it reminded him of the whole new level of cold he was feeling.

The once warm water in the overfull bathtub sloshed slightly as he slowly eased himself lower, a shiver running through his body as the tepid water came in contact with the just dried skin on his shoulders and as the wet skin on his knees and thighs met the chilled air. Sanji wanted to get out of the tub—the guest that the bath had been drawn for had been gone for at least two hours—but the rough nylon cord that bound his ankles together and his wrists to his opposite elbows behind his back prohibited the act, leaving him to simply lay half submerged in the rapidly cooling water until They sent someone to fish him out. And even if he hadn't been bound, he had no towel to dry off with, meaning that he would have had to settle for sprinting for his bed to shiver as he wrapped himself in his blankets. He had done that after a few of his rare showers, and it always took his bed at least a day to dry out.

Sanji let himself sink down until only the top half of his head and his acutely bent knees remained above the surface. The pinkish, ringed tub wasn't long enough to accommodate his height, and his muscles were beginning to cramp from a combination of the tight space and his persistent shivering. He huffed through his nose, trying to dispel some of the moisture that remained trapped inside, and watched as the displaced air sent small waves rippling across the surface. His breath set the flattened soap from the bubble bath mix in motion, causing the white oily film to swirl with water tinged pink from his own blood. The deep scratches across his neck, chest, arms, and legs hadn't had the opportunity to dry out and scab over, so they continued to bleed sluggishly. Sanji swallowed and winced as the action flexed the bruising muscles in his neck. Last night's guest had been one of the worst among his regulars.

He still remembered the first time he had met her, his solitary female client. Hers was another face that he had immediately recognized from the media. She was the assistant to Iceberg, a businessman that owned the Galley-La shipping company and most of the docks in the city. He was known for his charitable works and for always having the blonde woman in tow. The two of them had had multiple business dinners and luncheons at the Baratie, and Sanji had even waited on them a few times. Every time he had fawned and fainted over the gorgeous woman, making an utter fool of himself and drawing loud, not-at-all concealed snickering from the other cooks in the kitchen. But the executive assistant had always brushed off his advances, coolly ignoring him as she focused all of her attention on her boss and whatever business was being conducted. Sanji had always been okay with the cold treatment. The lovely lady had a job to do, and who was he to interfere with his unstoppable flirting? That was until the moment when he truly met her, the woman beneath the calm, collected façade.

Kalifa. The devil in angel's skin; a high-functioning sociopath wrapped up in a pretty package.

Sanji had only been a captive for somewhere around two weeks when she had first walked through the door to his prison. He remembered his heart skipping a beat at the mere sight of her, his hopes soaring high. He had greeted her enthusiastically, despite being bound to the headboard of his bed. He had thought that he was saved. How wrong he had been.

Kalifa had given him a slow, coy smile, climbing on top of and straddling him. She had leant in close, her breath tickling his blushing cheek, and whispered her long held secrets in his ear as she raked acrylic nails across his shoulders and chest, leaving deep red gouges in the pale flesh. All those times she had eaten at his restaurant, she had noticed him and wanted him. A thrill of pleasure had vibrated through Kalifa's body as she described to him how pleased she had been to learn that he was on the menu (she'd used those exact words); that terrifying grin never leaving her face as she described in detail all of the things she wanted to do to him. That night, Sanji had learned the true scope of his situation, and that evil and brutality weren't limited to the male gender alone.

The baths had begun with her second visit less than a week later. They had come in minutes before her arrival, pulled Sanji bodily from the bed, bound him, and unceremoniously dropped him into the scalding, bubbly water. At that point, he was still desperately clinging to the last threads of his hope and humanity, and he had sworn loudly at them, thrashing futilely against his bonds as the hot water stung his skin. His small act of defiance had earned him a rough yank of hair and a warning to behave. Then They had left him there, panting and shivering, despite the heat of the water, as he waited for his guest to arrive.

As it turned out, Kalifa had little interest in the act of bathing itself, or even in the water. Rather, her true obsession lay in the soap. She grew more and more excited with every one of Sanji's sharp intakes of breath as she scrubbed at fresh wounds; she laughed when the bubbly mixture stung at his eyes; and she became visibly aroused when she held him beneath the surface until he thought he would pass out. Sanji come out of the experience raw and aching, and They had even given him the next day off from any guests in order to allow the angry red scratch marks to heal.

Kalifa began requesting the aphrodisiac with his second bath. They had bound and drugged him in preparation, leaving a length of the same nylon cord that circled his arms and ankles lying on the edge of the tub. When the blonde had arrived, she'd wasted no time in massaging Sanji's member to life and then wrapping the cord around the base of his cock, telling him all the while how she wanted him to enjoy his "bath time" too. An overwhelming sense of shame flooded his heart at the same time that the soapy water flooded his lungs as Kalifa held him under the water and rode him and arousal washed over his body. It shouldn't have felt good, but it did. His hips shouldn't have bucked upwards as his cock throbbed with want, but they did. And he shouldn't have moaned with pleasure in the rare moments that he was given access to air, but he did.

Soon, Kalifa's visits became more frequent, and Sanji's spirit and resolve weakened. By his fourth bath, Kalifa's ritual had become routine and he had stopped struggling, lying completely still beneath her as she held him under the surface until he was giddy from lack of oxygen and his body felt like it would shut down. Part of him had wished that he would finally succumb to her torture and relieve him of his miserable life. On some level, Sanji wanted desperately to drown in that stained bathtub, but something always kept him from just opening his mouth and breathing in the soapy water.

But last night's visit had been different. As soon as he had been submerged, panic had set in. He couldn't die. He had hope again. Marimo had promised to save him, and if he drowned, it would all be in vain. Sanji knew that Kalifa wouldn't kill him; They wouldn't allow it. But that didn't stop him from fighting against her grip, flailing beneath her as he struggled to throw her from his body and as he pushed back against her choke hold around his neck. Months ago, he would have easily overpowered the small woman, but that night a combination between still-healing injuries, muscle fatigue, and his bonds kept him in place, and he had only managed to irritate her. Sanji's resurgence of defiance had provoked a whole new sadistic streak from Kalifa. She had hit him, scratched him more deeply than ever before, and held him under until his lungs screamed for air and his head spun.

Now, as he lay in the tepid water, all he could think about was the pain. His nose, palette, and throat stung from the water he had inhaled; and his lungs and stomach ached from the moisture trapped inside. Every breath he drew rattled around in his chest, and he had to clench his teeth to quell each wave of nausea that the vital action created. Sanji coughed and involuntarily whimpered, his arms tensing behind his back as he swallowed the bile that had risen to burn at his tongue. The mixture of blood and soap scum that swirled in the greasy bath water was already bad enough. He didn't want to add anything more to the disgusting mixture. He hated to think what would happen when They finally came in. The state of the bathroom with its stained tub and soaking wet floor wasn't his fault, but there was no doubt that he would be punished nonetheless. After all, most of the splashes of water over the edge had been his doing. Not nearly as big of a mess would have been made if he hadn't struggled. Not to mention all of the fresh scratches and bruises. There was a strong possibility that They would beat him. If They determined that the injuries Kalifa had left were bad enough that he couldn't work, what was to stop Them from teaching him a painful lesson? He hadn't received any sort of rough treatment by his captors in a few weeks, and the thought of what might be waiting for him made Sanji nervous.

Sanji gave his head a violent shake, sending cold droplets of water flying as he tried to clear his mind of panicky thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on what may be, even if it was inevitable. It would only make his wait that much more agonizing. Exhaling a rattling breath, he closed his eyes and tried his best to think of something comforting. His list was painfully short and shrinking by the day, but had one new addition that brought him almost instant relief.

Marimo.

It had been close to three weeks since the man had spent the night with him in the wake of Crocodile's visit. Since then, he had seen Marimo four more times; and Crocodile had called on him twice. Sanji wasn't sure how, but Marimo had somehow managed to schedule each of his visits to correspond with Crocodile's, the green-haired man always arriving within hours of the brutal businessman's departure. Crocodile's last two visits hadn't been nearly as bad as the one that had almost broken him three weeks before, but they had still left him in a fair amount of pain. Every time, the man had been there for him, holding him in his warm embrace and navigating his bruised and broken skin with the gentlest of touches.

Through all of it, Marimo rarely showed any of his frightening rage. On a few occasions, Sanji had seen dangerous hatred flash in that gunmetal eye, hardening his gaze with murderous intent when calloused fingers came in contact with a particularly deep bruise or angry welt. The worst had been the first time Marimo had reached between Sanji's legs with saliva slicked fingers to prepare him, only to pull them away stained red with blood. No matter how gentle the man tried to be, sex following a night with Crocodile was always painful for Sanji and it was impossible for him to stifle the small whimpers that broke free of his lungs or the grimaces that twisted his face. Every time, Marimo would pause in the middle of whatever he was doing to caress Sanji's cheek with his warm wide palm and plant soft kisses on tear-streaked cheeks and eyelids until the pain subsided and Sanji relaxed.

It was still difficult for Sanji to reconcile the man's gentle handling with the dangerous aura that surrounded him. With every meeting, he discovered more scars that betrayed a violent past. Other than the obvious ones over his eye and across his chest, Sanji had also come across matching scars that circled Marimo's ankles and a multitude of smaller knicks and scratches that had obviously been deep enough to permanently mar his tanned flesh. Just what did the man do for a living to earn so many injuries? Bellamy had tauntingly told him that Marimo was an assassin hired by Them to keep people in line. The guard had even called the man by the nickname "Swordsman". Just the thought of it sent jolts of fear running through Sanji's system. It wasn't so hard to believe that his gentle lover was a killer, but…

A loud thunk followed by an echoing gurgle pulled Sanji from his visions of Marimo. Opening his eyes, he felt his body tense as he watched a small whirlpool form over the drain at his feet. He had somehow kicked the cover away, and the cool water that served as his only protection against the even colder air was slowly beginning to slip down the clogged pipe. At best, he would have another twenty minutes before his wet skin was completely exposed. Sanji gritted his teeth and clenched his hands until his nails dug painfully into his palms, his shivering intensifying just at the thought of laying soaking wet in the empty bathtub. He could already feel the water receding, leaving inch after agonizing inch of abused skin exposed to the conditioned air.

All too soon, Sanji's watery barrier disappeared down the drain and true cold set in. If he thought that his chattering teeth had been bad before, it was nothing compared to the new chill that now gripped him. He shook from head to toe, each drop of water searing his skin as they dripped from wet hair, causing goosebumps to erupt across quivering flesh. Sanji wanted so badly to get out of the damned bathtub. Scratch that. He wanted Marimo. A whining sigh escaped his lungs as he imagined what it would be like to be wrapped in the man's embrace, to have those strong arms around him as they lay beneath the thin blankets on his hard bed, drifting off to sleep with Marimo's uncanny body heat soaking into him as he breathed in his unique scent, ran his fingers through green hair, and nuzzled into tanned skin.

His shivering subsided slightly, but still maintained an uncomfortable pace. The water level had sunk down to a few mere inches, leaving Sanji almost completely exposed. Without the protective cocoon created by the water, Sanji could feel the depth of the scratches Kalifa had left behind, the marks on his chest and shoulders aching with much more potency than they had before. He was also beginning to notice new injuries. The nylon cord that circled his ankles had worn the wetted skin away; he could see sores blossoming bright red on pale skin, staining the brightly colored fibers, and based on the itching pain that nagged at his wrists, he guessed that his arms were suffering the same fate.

Sanji managed to draw his shaking legs up to his chest with only a little difficulty, the action causing him to slide deeper into the tub until his bound arms stopped any further progress. He furrowed his brow and tried once again to stop his teeth from chattering by clenching his jaw painfully tight as he lay curled and shaking in the bottom of the empty bathtub. The intense cold had permeated every muscle, sinew, and tissue, seeming to penetrate straight to the marrow of his bones. No amount of daydreaming or intense shivering or steady breathing seemed to help. He was doomed to be forever cold, cut off from the world by a layer of icy, numbed skin. Sanji hoped with no small amount of desperation that Marimo would be the one to find him. It was foolish, but if ever there were someone that could bring warmth back into his frozen body, it was him.

Somewhere over the deafening sound of his own teeth vibrating off one another, Sanji heard the bolts on his door slide back and he twitched in the bottom of the tub, straining his ears as he tried to listen for any voice or indication of who it might be. Soon, he heard footsteps in the living area beyond the bathroom, the heavy booted steps somehow loud despite the muffling effects of the worn carpet. There was only one person he could think of whose gait was so loud. Sanji breathed a sigh of relief. Marimo really did have impeccable timing.

"I…I-I'm in h-here." His voice was weak from cold and shaky from shivering, but he hoped that the man could hear him nonetheless. Sanji wasn't sure how much more of the intense chill he could stand. He wanted desperately to feel warm again; he would give anything for it. "M-Marimo! I'm—I'm in th-the b-bathroom!"

"I know where you are, asshole."

Sanji's eyes snapped open. That wasn't Marimo's voice.

A whole new wave of despair rolled over him and he curled further in on himself, fear making him shiver as much as the cold. It had been stupid of him to assume those footsteps belonged to the man. Marimo wasn't the only one he knew who tromped around as if he were trying to put holes in the floor. He had foolishly let his wishful thinking outrun reason and reality, making the disappointment sting all the more.

He felt a rough hand tangle in his hair, and he couldn't suppress a pained yelp as he was dragged from the empty tub by his roots and dropped in the puddled water on the bathroom floor. Sanji curled into a protective fetal position, squeezing his eyes closed in anticipation of some physical attack that never came.

"Look at the mess you made," growled Bellamy as he loomed over his cowering captive. Sanji felt a booted foot rest on his shoulder, the dirt on the sole stinging as it came in contact with one of Kalifa's scratch marks. The blond guard shoved him over onto his back and rough fingers began to clumsily work at the knotted cord around his ankles. "You're lucky the good doctor is with me, or I'd be teaching you a lesson right now."

Sanji felt the nylon fall away and he barely managed to get his feet under him as he was pulled upright by a combined grip on his hair and his elbow. He swayed slightly as he stood, dizzy after the hours spent lying down, and shivered against Bellamy's bruising grip around his bicep.

"We don't have all day," grumbled the blond, shoving Sanji out of the cramped bathroom.

Still unsteady on his feet, Sanji tripped over nothing, bumping into the doorframe as he staggered out of the bathroom and into the adjoining washroom. A steadying hand caught his shoulder just before he fell against the faux marble sink, and he leaned heavily against it until the room stopped moving enough that he could stand on his own. Slowly opening his eyes, Sanji found himself being supported by one of Their more humane doctors.

The doctor was a young man, not much older than Sanji, but he was brilliant. There had been more than one occasion that he had had to patch up the captive chef, and not a single wound that he had treated had left a permanent physical scar. He moved with the practiced ease of a surgeon, his calm, serious demeanor and intelligence belying experience outside of that of a simple mob doctor. Though Sanji wasn't sure at which hospital the man possibly could have worked. At first glance, the doctor looked more like a juvenile delinquent than a physician, with his dark spiky hair, myriad of tattoos, and sardonic smirk. Sanji had even secretly given him the nickname "Surgeon of Death" for the word tattooed across the fingers of each hand.

But, for all of the misconceptions one could have just from the man's exterior, the doctor had only ever been gentle in his treatment of Sanji, healing his wounds and, for the briefest moments, shielding him from further harm.

The doctor studied Sanji with a guarded expression, the slight downward turn of his mouth giving the only indication of his concern. Sanji waited patiently, his muscles still quivering from the cold, as the other man wordlessly cataloged every fresh scratch and bruise on his body. After several minutes of tense shivering silence, the doctor sighed and raised his gaze to meet Sanji's eyes.

"She was rougher than usual this time, yeah?" he asked, stepping around behind Sanji and loosening the cord that still bound his arms.

Sanji nodded dumbly, hugging his arms around his body as soon as they were freed. The doctor's eyebrows drew together for a moment, and then his expression neutralized once again. With a gentle hand on the shoulder, he ushered Sanji toward the bed.

"I'll see what I can do, but you might not be able to see anyone for a few days."

A small amount of dread rose from Sanji's stomach to grip at his heart. He had seen this coming, but the thought of entertaining Them for the next day or two while he healed was terrifying nonetheless. He would rather spend the night with ten Kalifa's than any one of Them, particularly the higher-ups that seemed to like him so much.

He heard Bellamy chuckle from the door to the washroom.

"Maybe the Boss will pay you a visit," taunted the guard, making Sanji's blood run cold.

"Shut up, Bellamy," muttered the doctor with an exasperated sigh. He gently pushed Sanji down onto the bed and opened the medical bag that he had left on the foot end. "He's out of town this week, you know that."

Relief flooded Sanji's system at the statement and he found himself having to suppress a small smirk. The doctor had no fondness for the blond guard whatsoever, and he never hesitated to show his dislike. His frequent and annoyed orders for the other man to shut up were the only reason that Sanji even knew Bellamy's name. By contrast, he didn't know any of the others' names; They were always careful to keep Their identities secret. Sanji supposed that Their secrecy was meant to act as yet another layer of security. As if Sanji's being locked up in a mysterious hotel room hundreds of feet up and completely nude wasn't enough; in the unlikely event that he ever were to escape, he wouldn't have any names to give to police, only faces.

He heard Bellamy grumble under his breath, apparently unable to come up with a decent retort. The doctor pointedly ignored the guard as he swabbed Sanji's injuries with antiseptic. The cleaning solution stung as it was applied, but Sanji barely registered the pain through his cold-numbed skin. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused once more on stopping his teeth from chattering, trying his best not to think about the peculiar shade of purplish-blue that he had seen on his own lips in the mirror. Soon, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room, the deafening quiet only broken by the occasional sharp intake of breath from Sanji when the doctor ran his swab over a particularly deep scratch.

Each minute seemed to drag into an eternity as the doctor cleaned and dressed Sanji's wounds, taping gauze over the deeper scratches and then further affixing them with a roll of cotton bandages. He carefully wrapped the fabric around his shoulders, arms, and chest, carefully tying it off and using the remainder to cover the sores around Sanji's wrists, elbows, and ankles. Sanji welcomed the new insulation against the chill of his room, even if it did come with frightening consequences. His shivering was even beginning to subside, until Bellamy chose to break the silence.

"The Swordsman was asking about you again," he said.

Sanji opened his eyes, daring to turn and make eye contact with the guard. Bellamy met his stunned gaze with a mocking smirk.

"I think the Boss might be getting suspicious. He thinks the Swordsman likes you a little too much," continued Bellamy. He laughed. "Maybe he'll make him off your old man to prove his loyalty."

Sanji recoiled at the crude suggestion. Could it be true? Surely, Marimo wouldn't—but he had known all of those things about him. From the sounds of it, the man had visited the Baratie; he knew Zeff's routine, he knew the staff. What if he had learned all of those things about Sanji simply because he had been assigned to? What if all of those nights spent wrapped in Marimo's warm embrace had only been a build up, only to tear it all away by killing those he held most dear? They had always promised him swift retribution if he misbehaved, and had delivered on Their word every time; though it had always been through attacks on Sanji's body, not his friends and family.

Sanji squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head, trying to keep his emotions in check and his trust in Marimo intact. The man genuinely cared for him; he had demonstrated as much through his actions. So, he wouldn't possibly—he couldn't—

"Shut up, Bellamy," sighed the doctor. Sanji could almost feel him roll his eyes. "Don't talk about things you don't know anything about, yeah? It just makes you sound even dumber than you already are."

Bellamy let out an angry growl. "I don't get it. Why do you defend him?"

Sanji heard him stomp across to the room, the muscles in his back and shoulders tensing when he felt the larger man's presence a few mere inches away.

"What's his appeal?" spat Bellamy. "Is it because he looks like a girl?" He roughly grabbed a fist full of Sanji's hair, yanking his head painfully to the side. "Look at him; he's shaking. He's such a fucking coward."

Sanji wanted to make a scathing retort; three months ago, he would have. He had even attacked Bellamy once, early in his captivity. The beating he had received as punishment had nearly killed him. Since then, the guard's verbal and physical abuse had intensified day by day as he asserted more and more of his dominance over Sanji.

"Maybe I should just fuck him and find out for myself," whispered Bellamy, leaning in painfully close. Sanji could feel Bellamy's hot breath on his cheek as he spoke, a combination between the sensation and the suggestion sending chills running up and down his spine.

"No, you won't."

Both Sanji and Bellamy turned their undivided attention to the doctor when he spoke. The doctor spared Sanji the briefest glance, and then turned his glare on Bellamy.

"He needs two days to heal. I'm reserving him for both days," explained the doctor, his voice cold. Bellamy began to complain, but he cut him off. "If you have a problem with it, take it up with the Boss when he gets back. You know he'll take my side." He roughly tapped a finger against the wrist of the hand Bellamy had tangled in Sanji's hair. "Now, let go of my patient and leave. Don't come back for two days."

Bellamy growled low and fisted Sanji's hair more tightly as if trying to gauge how serious the doctor was being. Then, with a rough jerking movement that nearly toppled Sanji over, he let go of him and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The doctor watched after the retreating guard for a moment, and then returned his attention to dressing Sanji's wounds. Sanji watched in silence, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. The doctor had never spent any more time than necessary with him, coming in to check on his health or treat new injuries or make sure he had properly performed his duties or whatever, and then promptly leaving. He had never expressed any interest in using Sanji as the others did, and now he had reserved him for two days? What did he want to do? Sanji didn't know the doctor well enough to just ask him outright, leaving him to sit quietly and wait for an answer.

"I'm not staying, if that what you're thinking," the doctor finally said as he finished bandaging the last of Sanji's injuries.

Sanji frowned. "So, I'm spending the next two days alone?" he dared to ask, meeting the doctor's dark gaze.

"No." The doctor turned away and began to repack his medical bag. "There will be someone here with you."

The doctor was being cryptic, which wasn't unusual, but it still made Sanji nervous.

"Who?" blurted Sanji, unable to stop the syllable before it slipped from his lips.

His question earned him a sharp glare, and Sanji somehow managed to maintain eye contact, emboldened by his curiosity. The doctor smirked.

"You know him, actually." He glanced at the clock by the bed. "He should be here any minute."

As if on cue, there was a sharp knock at the door. The doctor's smirk widened into a small smile and he got up to let the mystery guest in. Sanji found himself holding his breath as he watched the doctor walk the few feet from the corner of the bed to the door. The doctor hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the knob and one eyebrow raised as he glanced back at Sanji, and then he pulled open the door.

Sanji gasped, his eyes immediately drawn to the all-too-familiar green hair. He looked from Marimo to the doctor and back again, not quite believing what he was seeing. They knew each other? Had the two of them planned this? Sanji nervously began to pick at the bandages wrapped around one of his elbows. Were his injuries really severe enough to warrant the amount of time the doctor had prescribed? He didn't understand. None of Them had ever afforded him any sort of kindness, so why was the doctor suddenly granting him two whole days with the only person that brought him any comfort? What was the motive? Panic made his heart flutter, his fingers digging painfully into the scratches under the bandages. Nothing came without a price and this promised to be expensive.

Warm hands closed around Sanji's fingers, pulling them away before he could do any more damage to the freshly wrapped bandages. He opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed and met Marimo's gunmetal gaze. The man's one grey eye was softened with concern, his arched eyebrows knitted slightly together as he held Sanji's cold fingers in a tight grip. It was then that Sanji realized he was still shivering.

"You're freezing," said Marimo. He released one hand from around Sanji's fingers and ran it through his still damp hair. "And you're wet. Why are you wet?"

Sanji gave him a weak smirk in reply, the surprise of seeing the man again stealing his words away. When he only continued to silently shake, Marimo pulled him forward and trapped him against his chest, pausing only to wrap his oversized coat around both of them.

Under normal circumstances, Sanji would have felt stupid. For all intents and purposes, he was being treated like a child. He didn't recall being held that way since Zeff had come and scared his nightmares away when he was a kid. Even the other times that Marimo had visited, any embrace had always been under the covers. But for all of the embarrassment that he might have felt, Sanji found himself oddly comforted by the act. He pressed himself against the man's body, greedily absorbing as much of his body heat as possible. When Bellamy had walked into the bathroom and dragged him from the tub, Sanji had forsaken any chance at seeing Marimo again. Now, lying against him, wrapped up in his warmth and listening to his steady heartbeat, somehow boomingly loud even through a thick layer of blue fleece, he was almost able to forget his earlier despair.

"Why is he wet?" asked Marimo, his voice rumbling through Sanji's body. Sanji felt the man's arms tighten around him as he turned to face the doctor—who he had completely forgotten was still there—by the door.

"Found him in the bath," replied the doctor brusquely.

Both men were silent for a moment, and Sanji guessed by the way Marimo squeezed protectively at his bandaged shoulders that they were having some sort of unspoken conversation. Sanji burrowed deeper into the warm confines of the man's coat, relishing in the softness of the fleece stretched across the firm muscles; the strangeness of his own human radiator wearing a sweater barely registering in his mind. Soon, his shivering began to subside, and he tilted his head up to peek over the lapel of Marimo's coat.

"I'll be fine," Sanji tried to reassure both men.

A small grin twitched at the corners of the doctor's mouth. "In that case, I'll see you in two days then, yeah?"

Sanji nodded, moving further into Marimo's embrace as the doctor reached for the door.

"Oi, Heartstealer," called Marimo, causing the doctor to pause. Sanji twitched at the odd nickname, his breath catching in his lungs as he listened to every word the man said to the doctor. "Don't forget, there's a meeting at the usual place tonight. Tell the Captain that I'm sorry I couldn't make it."

The doctor smirked. "Tell him yourself at the next one, _Pirate Hunter_."

And then he was gone.

Sanji frowned, ducking his head down and settling back into the warm little tent created by Marimo's coat. All of the code names were starting to wear on his nerves. And now there were secret meetings? And who was this "Captain"? Sanji wasn't sure how to feel about what he'd just heard. Had they been talking about a meeting within the organization that held him captive? Or was it some sort of outside group? And Marimo and the doctor seemed quite familiar with each other, not that Sanji was jealous or anything. But it raised more questions than he could ever hope to have answers to.

"You okay?" asked Marimo, giving him a small shake.

Sanji looked up at him and quirked a curly eyebrow. "Heartstealer?"

Marimo raised his arm to rub awkwardly at the back of his head, displacing the coat from around Sanji's shoulders and sending a wave of chilled air rushing across his skin.

"Yeah, I know. It's stupid," he muttered, looking anywhere but Sanji's eyes. "The girls came up with it. They said that it 'suited' him or whatever."

"Girls?" asked Sanji, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of the word.

"You'll meet them when we get you out of here; them and everyone else."

"_We?_" Sanji pulled away from the man, scooting backwards on the bed until his back rested against the headboard and they were no longer touching. He was getting angry for some reason, though he couldn't quite figure out why. "Just how many of you are there?"

"I don't see why that matters," deadpanned Marimo. "We're going to get you out of here. Why should you care about how many of us there are?"

"It matters because…well, because it does!" spat Sanji, no longer caring about keeping his voice down. He could feel his body shaking, though he wasn't sure whether it was from cold or fear or anger. Maybe from a combination. "What if they can't all be trusted? What if one of them betrays us? What if this fails? They'll…They'll…"

Sanji's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. Panic the likes of which he only felt when impending punishment was upon him was beginning to set in. The more people there were involved, the more likely they were to have a traitor among them. If They found out, the punishment would be severe. Sanji couldn't stand the thought of earning a visit from the Boss. Those never ended well, even when they were supposedly "friendly". If he were caught trying to escape… And what would They do to Marimo? And these girls he'd spoken of? He would never forgive himself if a couple of innocent ladies ended up in the same situation because of him. Maybe it was better if they gave up on this futile plan. There didn't even seem to _be_ a plan, anyway. What were Marimo and his friends planning on doing? Did they think they could just come in, guns blazing, and carry him out of the building naked? Were they going to call the police? They had made it pretty clear that They had connections everywhere, even within law enforcement. There was no way that this was going to work. It was impossible. It was—

"Whoa, calm down, Curlybrow," soothed Marimo, grabbing at the hands that Sanji had unwittingly tangled in his own hair. Sanji let the man pull him into another warm embrace. "Listen, I can't tell you all the details; it's too dangerous. But this is going to happen, so just trust me, okay?"

Sanji sat perfectly still, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and make sense of all of the thoughts running rampant through his mind. He wanted to trust Marimo. He wanted it so badly that it hurt. But doubt continued to linger. In every moment that he was kept from the entire truth; in every suggestion by Bellamy about Marimo's real identity; in every day, hour, minute, and second that dragged by with no real change in his circumstances, doubt found a foothold.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I got you something," said Marimo.

"Liar," muttered Sanji, fisting his hands in the man's sweater.

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You're just trying to change the subject."

"No. Look…" Marimo pushed him away and began to pull off the sweater.

Sanji gave him a deadpan stare, his eyebrow twitching slightly in annoyance. "I swear, Marimo, if you're the gift, I'll—"

Suddenly, the sweater was thrust into Sanji's hands, cutting him off midsentence. He let his mouth hang open for a moment as he simply stared at the article of clothing in his lap.

It wasn't anything fancy. There was no designer label, or any label at all for that matter. It looked more like the kind of sweatshirt that were sold in the back corner of any convenience store. Light blue and hooded, it was easily a size too small for the man, but had been stretched out when he had worn it. Sanji guessed that They wouldn't have just let him carry anything in, and that wearing it had been Marimo's only option. He reverently ran his hands over the fleece, sliding the fabric between his fingers and through his palms. The sweater was soft in the way that synthetic fabrics were soft, in a plastic sort of way that promised plenty of static. There had been a time when he would have flatly refused to wear such an abomination, but now it felt like holding the finest silk in his hands.

"This is for me?" he breathed, speaking as much to himself as he was to Marimo. He felt like he was dreaming. It had been so long since he'd last held clothing in his hands. He had long since given up hope on ever being allowed such a human comfort again.

"It's part of the plan," explained Marimo. "I'll smuggle in clothes to you over the next few weeks, and once we have enough, we'll sneak you out."

Sanji merely nodded, still enraptured by the sweatshirt spread across his lap. With shaking hands, he lifted it for further examination.

"I know it's probably not your thing," stammered Marimo, suddenly awkward once again. "The girls said that you probably had really nice clothes before…but you're always cold, so I wanted to get you something warm. And, I don't know…"—Sanji thought he could see a faint blush coloring the man's cheeks and nose.—"I thought that maybe the blue would match your eyes."

Sanji slowly lowered the sweater back into his lap. He could only stare at the other man, completely dumbfounded by the momentous gift he had just been given. How could he make the daft moss head understand? It wasn't just a cheap convenience store sweatshirt; it was a return to normalcy. With this mass of stretched out blue fleece, Sanji could take his first steps toward regaining his humanity. It felt as if he had somehow regained another piece of himself that he had thought permanently stolen away. And, once again, it had been Marimo that had given it to him.

Marimo gave him a sullen look. "You hate it."

"It's perfect," Sanji replied before the man had even finished his sentence. He hurriedly pulled the sweatshirt over his head, tangling himself momentarily in the sleeves before muscle memory kicked in and he managed to properly dress himself.

Sanji paused a moment to revel in the feeling of wearing clothes again. The poor sweatshirt was so stretched that the sleeves reached almost all the way down his hands and the hem fell well below his hips, but it was warm. The inescapable chill of his room seemed banished by the thick layer of fleece, and for the first time since his abduction, Sanji could simply sit by himself without shivering. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he leaned forward and rewarded Marimo with a kiss.

"Thank you," said Sanji when they broke apart.

Marimo's face split in a slow grin and he lunged at Sanji, toppling them both over to land on the pillows. The movement caught Sanji by surprise, earning the man a startled laugh. Marimo pulled him close, nuzzling into the junction where Sanji's fair skin disappeared under the soft fleece.

"You feel warm, shitty cook," he said, giving Sanji a slight squeeze. Sanji smiled to himself, tangling his feet within Marimo's legs while he busied his hands with running over the blue fabric. Marimo brushed some stray hair—whose lingering dampness no longer seemed to matter—away from Sanji's ear. "It's nice to see you smile."

Sanji lay quietly for several minutes, his fingers idly playing with a combination between the sweatshirt and Marimo's hands.

"So, how many more pieces were you planning for this genius ensemble?" he finally asked.

"Well, pants, of course," replied Marimo, "and shoes. Maybe a coat. Why?"

"And how long will it take?"

"Two weeks, maybe."

Sanji swallowed hard, excitement blossoming and warming him from within. Two weeks, he had said.

Only two more weeks, and he would be free.

* * *

There's a plot in there somewhere, I just know it...

Anyway, after this, all of my writing will go on a brief hiatus. For those of you that don't know, I organized the ZoSan Christmas Exchange. I need to take some time off of everything so that I can throw all of my focus into putting together the book. As soon as it's done and off to the printer, I will give all of my fics renewed attention, including this one, CMD, and my many Lemonade prompts. :)

If anyone is curious about the ZoSan Christmas Exchange, you can find all of the information on my tumblr page (which I believe is linked through my profile), but if not, my tumblr identity is kumiko-sama-chan.

Til next time!


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